Page 85 of Exchanged

“What was that?” Dad asks, also standing.

“Joe,” Aunt Liz warns.

“Brock,” Gina says.

“Nothing,” Brock says, a smirk still playing at the corner of his lips. “It’s just funny, is all. Considering that flag on your porch.”

“Mr. Andersen,” Lana admonishes.

“Dad,” Garrett says.

We’re all standing now, the air tense.

“My apologies,” Brock says, waving a dismissive hand. “No need for everyone to get offended.”

“It’s probably time for you to head out,” Dad says. His coffee mug is still in his hand, and he takes a long, threatening sip, his eyes trained on Brock.

We file into the entryway, and as Brock reaches for the front door, he pauses and turns around. “I guess I’m still confused,” he says, pointing at Garrett and then at me, “about you two. What’s going on here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrett says.

“Brock,” Gina pleads.

“Garrett,” I say.

Brock juts his chin at Dad. “You know I expressed certain … expectations at the beginning of the year.”

Dad raises his eyebrows. “And I have a different set of ‘expectations’ at my house.”

Brock scrutinizes me. “I can tell.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Dad asks.

“Joe,” Aunt Liz warns again.

“Brock,” Gina says. This time she tugs at the sleeve of his sport coat.

Brock ignores her and nods at me. “I can see the way Enzo looks at my son. I’m not blind.”

“Dad—”

Brock cuts Garrett off. “I sent you here to get you away from that shit. To get you away from Corey and Lisbeth and your libtard teachers. So maybe you can understand why I’m a little pissed about what Joe lets slide in his own house.”

“Dad—” Garrett tries again.

But Brock takes a step toward Dad. Brock is breathing heavily, and I briefly wonder if he’s going to try to fight Dad in the entryway of our store.

“What did you let happen between the two of them?” he asks. “Did you bother talking to your son about what’s appropriate around someone else’s kid?”

“That’s none of your damn business,” Dad says.

Brock steps in front of me now. “I’m done beating around the bush,” he tells me. “Are you fucking my son?”

Everyone says and does something at the same time, and I only catch segments of each reaction.

Dad places himself between the two of us, shouting in Brock’s face.

Aunt Liz splutters words like inappropriate and teenager, her hair falling out of its bun.